Chapter Text
Sometimes Steve forgot how desperately poor he was. It wasn’t often that he did, but when he did…
When he did.
The world where you don’t have to worry about your next meal, where you don’t have to think about rent and hospital bills and the widows down the hallway of your tenement that’s too dusty and too cold and so fucking crowded that you can’t hear yourself think much less try to live a life outside of responsibilities and tired smiles at the end of every long day… yeah. That world’s nice.
Steve never tried to forget he was poor. Although the allure of delusion was hopelessly seductive, he knew that once he started on that path he’d never get off it. Never stop wishing and pretending until the day he died.
Steve preferred to live in the realm of truth. From a very young age, he learned that accepting the hand you’ve been dealt is easier than bluffing and losing it all, so he put on a tough face and spat venom at anyone who dared tell him otherwise. His devotion to honesty would grow ironic once he was older and wore a colorful suit instead of ill-fitting pants held up only by suspenders, but he wasn’t there yet. He wasn’t there, at all.
People forgot when he was big and strong. They forgot the little kid screaming obscenities when he should’ve been singing nursery rhymes. They forgot how well he knew the pang of hunger, the sting of a fist. They forgot everything that didn’t strictly follow the narrative of an Aryan god born in a lab and raised on a battlefield.
That was alright. Steve knew that he could never forget.
“...and so the ewe come to Ashley Pelt and cried out, ‘Weep not! Strike tha rod upon tha stone three times and whatever ya wish be yours, but be wary - yer bound be back by twelve on tha clock or it’ll all disappear away…’”
Steve felt his eyes droop as the familiar story washed over him. Still young enough to remember the rolling hills and smoky shacks of Ireland, he wished that his Mam would say it in their native tongue, unable to understand why learning English was so important when the grocer and the tenement owner spoke Gaelic just fine. But she droned on in the harsh language anyways, drawling her vowels and tripping over the pronunciation of longer words.
“In her speed a-runnin’ she lost that silk slipper, so tha prince looked for a leedy it’d fit. And tha step-sisters were tryin’ to get on that slipper, fer tha prince say he loved tha girl an’ would marry her in… i buille croí if tha slipper fit. So they send her ta field and bid her mind tha cows. And they cut their toes ta fit that slipper but they got na’ but agony.”
Steve fought the sleep overtaking him, knowing the best part was coming up and he had to be awake to hear it.
“So the prince ridin’ by, and he hears the ewe cry fer him ta stop when he come by tha field. An’ tha ewe’s singin-”
“Adhrann mac an rí le bharraicíní fuilteacha,” Steve sang along softly, “Ach seo an áit a bhfuil an fíor-ghrá.”
“Sin céart,” Sorcha replied softly as her son finally gave up on staying awake, long eyelashes fluttering as his eyes shut. “That’s it, Stíophán. And so tha prince rode an’ founder in the cows an’ they were wed. An’ if they were happy, so may you an’ I be.” Those last words were a whisper, practically a prayer. The mother turned out the lights on her sleeping child and went to the other side of the room to mend his torn and bloody clothes until her own exhaustion was too all-encompassing to bear.
Where her son was venom, Sorcha Ó Raghallaigh was salve. In her own mind, she liked to think she had a spine of steel and a heart of gold. While she never voiced this aloud, it was all too true.
Spine of steel, heart of gold. She needed these things, back home. She reminded her son of the hills greener than green and sun that smiled down on happy farmers, but Sarah remembered the true nature of their homeland. Remembered the guns, the hunger, the fear, the violence. They were fighters to the core, yet running was the only way to save her little boy from a hard life that led to an early death.
And thus Stíophán became Steven, Sorcha became Sarah, and their proud last name with history stretching back for generations became the bland American afterthought it was now. Sorcha reminded herself of the men she stitched up on battlefields every time she signed her new name, and remembered the need for this brand new start.
She had been here for three years. Trying to learn the strange language with twisting vines of grammar and diction, trying to move away from the reception desk in a hospital she was more than qualified to be a doctor in, trying to keep her frail son breathing through every brutal winter. It was as hard a life as they had before, harder, in some ways, yet Sorcha knew she had to be grateful. Where would they be now if they had stayed in Ireland?
There were good parts, certainly. Her boy was learning to read, showing signs of a brilliant mind with all his little comments and his insane knack for English. Sure, he griped, but Stíophán could speak English much better than Sorcha could, better even than some of the other immigrants on their block who had been in America for longer.
Their neighbors were kind, for the most part. They broke bread with Sorcha when she first came, and she could trust them with her child when the hospital started asking for more and more hours of work. She needed the money, God on high knew she did, but without the kindness of her neighbors disguised as a mutually beneficial arrangement - “Maria and Stíophán get along so well, it’s practically like they take care of themselves!” - she would be lost.
America was dichotomous, she found. Where some spent their days doing honest work, chipping in to help others with what little they had to spare, others stole and cheated their way to a more manageable level of poverty.
Then, of course, there was the rich. She had no patience for the rich. How could she? Pasty men paraded about in their dinner coats and furs, bought excess for the thrill of it from shops staffed by starving young women. There was little place in Sorcha’s heart for hatred, it was too full of compassion and worry and love, but the little space she did have was occupied by a burning desire to set the rich aflame.
There was little to do but work, however. Those Socialist meetings, no matter how cathartic, did little to change the churning sea that was the American economy. Sorcha Ó Raghallaigh was aflame with the need to create a better world for her son, but Sarah Rogers had to work hard and keep her head down if she didn’t want to get them evicted. She mended her clothes in silence.
Steve was twelve when they moved into the Hooverville in Central Park.
“It’s just fer a little while,” his mother said tightly as they packed their things up into worn suitcases from the old country, “Jus’ until we can find a new tenement. Okay?”
“Okay,” he mumbled back. Steve wanted to believe her, he really did, but he had seen the shantytowns. He had seen the hungry classmates, the exhausted teachers. Steve grew up in this aching poverty, so he was twisted enough to know that once you went to a Hooverville, only divine intervention was getting you out.
“We’re gonna ta be fine, leanbh , I swear ta you on all things holy, I will keep you safe.” The fierceness of her love was evident, even as she hurriedly shoved muted skirts onto her legs. “Now, put on both yer sweaters. That’s it, love. Coat too. Ready ta go?”
Steve looked at his toy soldiers in the corner, his books on the shelf, his pictures on the wall. His mother, standing impatiently with sweat on her forehead as she wore all the clothes she couldn’t fit in her bag. “Yeah, Mam. Let’s go.”
The walk to Central Park was a quiet one, and an embarrassing one. Anyone who saw the blonde pair knew exactly what they were up to, which earned an equal number of pitying and scorning looks. Steve wished he could punch every single person who looked at him like that, but he contained the rage and focused on keeping up with Mam’s quick pace.
When they were about ten minutes away, a woman stopped them. With her fashionably long curling bob haircut and her clean fall coat, anyone could see that she was wealthy. That is, wealthy as one could be those days. “Sarah!” she called out unexpectedly, drawing several eyes that quickly glanced away and a thin smile from Sorcha.
“Hello, Mrs. Barnes,” Sorcha said quietly, putting a hand on Steve’s arm to keep him near her as the two women converged. Upon closer examination, Steve could see that the other woman - Mrs. Barnes - wore a simple gold wedding ring alongside a few others. Wealthy, indeed. Steve bristled as he wondered why on Earth his mother knew this woman.
“Oh, Sarah, dear. You wouldn’t believe how empty the synagogue was today! We were the only ones in the first row - but I suppose you don’t want to hear about all that. Goodness, it’s been a while since I’ve seen you! Ten years, if I’m not mistaken. How the time flies! How is that husband of yours? Joseph, right? I simply can’t believe we never met… in any case. How are you, darling?”
Mrs. Barnes spoke as though she was steps away from the guillotine, cramming every last word in she possibly could before she didn’t have the chance. Steve’s Mam didn’t seem to be phased, however, ignoring the glaring oddities in the little monologue in favor of giving her first true smile of the day. “It’s a pleasure to see you too, Mrs. Barnes. You’re not mistaken, either, I think it has been ten years. And Joe… well. We lost him eight years ago, the doctors said it was complications from the mustard gas in the Great War.” Steve frowned at that, confused, but gave no correction to his Mam’s statement.
“Oh!” Mrs. Barnes cried out, clapping a hand over her mouth and reaching the other out as though to comfort Sorcha. “Oh, darling, how awful! I’m so very sorry.”
“It was a long time ago, but I thank you nonetheless.”
Mrs. Barnes seemed to regain herself at that, straightening a bit and dropping her hands. “Well, I suppose that’s so. The War seems like it was only yesterday, doesn’t it? Yet it truly was a long time ago. Though you wouldn’t know it from how often George talks about it, I swear I’ll need to stuff a sock in his mouth the next time he brings up the Somne!” She giggled a little, and Sorcha joined in.
“Yes, how is George? And the children, of course.”
“They’re- well, I suppose you can see for yourself! JAMES!” She bellowed suddenly, startling everyone in the vicinity except a wiry dark-haired boy across the street. The boy looked away from the paperboy he was bargaining with and jogged over at his mother’s beckoning, allowing her to pull him upright and brush off his coat. “James, say hello to Sarah. She was your nanny when you and Rebecca were younger, though I suppose you wouldn’t remember.”
“Hello,” he said amiably, “I’m Bucky.”
“Goodness me, how you’ve grown!” Sorcha looked at the boy in appreciation and awe, turning to her former employer with a wide smile. “Mrs. Barnes, you’ve raised a fine son.”
“I have, haven’t I? Though there’s still plenty of raising yet to do ‘til this boy turns to a man.” She knocked him upside the head a bit in good nature, and the pair exchanged a little fond exasperation before Mrs. Barnes gave Steve more than a passing glance for the first time. “And this is your little Steven, yes?”
Sorcha cleared her throat, and Steve took the hint, speaking with the best diction he could muster. “Yes, ma’am. It’s a pleasure to meet your acquaintance.”
“My word, aren’t you a polite little man! I see you’re getting the hang of American phrases, how wonderful.” She turned to James (Bucky?) and confided, “Sarah here spoke about three words of English by the time she came to us, and the boy spoke even less.” Shifting her focus back to a considerably more irritable Steve, she gave a deceptively cheerful smile and pointedly babyish tone of voice. “I’m so glad you’re adjusting to the new country! At least, somewhat,” she concluded, eyes drifting to the obvious bags and layers of clothing.
“I’ve found the country to be truly remarkable,” Steve said despite a death glare from his Mam, “And I would certainly love to compare it to my country of birth if I had been old enough to remember it when we immigrated. Alas, I’ve been an American for too long.” While the formal speech was difficult for Steve to conjure, it was worth it for the hastily hidden look of surprise on Mrs. Barnes’ face.
“Yes, of course,” she said tersely, “I suppose you have. Come along now, James, I’ve got to make dinner before George and your sisters come home. Lovely to see you, Sarah!” And with that they were off, the dark-haired boy looking back curiously as his mother led him at a brisk pace with a vice grip on his arm.
The Rogers’ were silent and still for a moment, unsure of how to address the exchange, before Sorcha sighed and beckoned for her son to follow her. “Keep moving, Stíophán. We want to find a good place before night falls.”
The idea of America was dangerously seductive. Everyone knew it was your ticket out of the Civil War wreaking havoc on Ireland, but no one thought about what you would actually do once you got there.
Sorcha had no clue what she was going to do once she got there.
The first step was deciding how to address the little boy in her arms. He couldn’t be the product of rape: it was hard enough for people to accept their family, even back in their home where she had a good reputation. Here? Stíophán needed a father.
And so Joseph Rogers was born, conjured in the lower level of a stinking cargo ship. Sorcha birthed a beautiful love story as she sat still, the tossing and turning of the boat rocking her child for her.
Yes, Joseph. Always away from home, sending back what he could. He had a friend in America- a traveling salesman who had come over years prior, a man who begged good ol’ Joe to help him find a place to set up a permanent store and get both their families settled down for good.
But then, tragedy! A mere two weeks after Sarah put in her notice with the Barnes family, moving onwards and upwards to a nearby hospital, Joseph was found deceased in his bed. Complications from mustard gas, leftover from the War. An heroic death for a beautiful lie.
While the story was weak, it was better than the truth. And it wasn’t like anyone would believe Sorcha was a widow, not with her youthful appearance and beautiful face. The War took many, many lives, but most Americans wouldn’t believe it could harm an immigrant, too. Despite the fact that they had all come from immigrants, themselves.
Sorcha tried not to be bitter as she wove her little lies, desperately hoping they kept her boy safe. Mrs. Barnes ate them up, in her own little world where she had nothing to do but sew and stew in her small but beautiful home. Of course, she did more and more housework once the depression hit and the Barnes’ had to give up their hired help. Sorcha was lucky enough to get a job before they inevitably let her go.
Oh, but it was a good job. The twins were a handful, certainly, but they were sweet. Baby Ethel was a joy as well, once she was born, and watching little James coo over his new sister was an absolute delight. Yes, it was hard work, but Sorcha loved it, loved dressing them up in their little outfits and playing all sorts of games with them. It would have been a perfect job, if it didn’t make her miss her son like a limb.
She would watch the twins run around on unsteady feet, play with their toys and games and each other, and mourn the life her boy could have had if they were born a little luckier. These children didn’t deserve her spite, though, so she swallowed any bitter thoughts and cared for them in a way she desperately wished their mother wanted to, even if it meant that Sorcha was out of a job.
And now James was all grown, the little brown curls she remembered now slicked back in the current style. Now Mrs. Barnes was poorer, older, wider, but none the wiser to the world that existed outside her rare little bubble of moderate wealth. Now Sorcha was living in a goddamn Hooverville, with no cash, and no end in sight.